“Something caused it,” Monk insisted. “Trains don’t crash for no reason.” He longed to be told it was human error for certain, nothing to do with the planning or building of the line, but without proof he could not believe it. Arrol Dundas had been tried and sent to prison. The jury had believed him guilty of fraud. Why? What fraud? Monk knew nothing about it now, but what had he known then? Could he have saved Dundas if he had been prepared to admit his own part? That was the fear that crowded in on him from all sides like the oncoming of night, threatening to snatch back from him all the warmth and the sweetness he had won in the present.

“I dunno,” the clerk insisted. “Nobody knew that, sir. Or if they did, they weren’t tellin’.”

“No . . . of course not. I’m sorry,” Monk apologized. “Where can I find out about land acquisition and surveying for railways?”

“Best go ter the nearest county town for the track in question,” the clerk replied. “If yer want that old one, go ter Liverpool, I reckon, an’ start from there.”

“Derbyshire? Derby, I suppose.” That was not really a question. He had supplied his own answer. “Thank you.”

“Yer welcome, I’m sure. I ’ope it’s some use to yer,” the clerk said graciously.

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” Monk left the office in something of a daze. Liverpool was what mattered, but if he found out whatever land purchase was concerned in the present Baltimore line, at least he would be familiar with the mechanics of it. Liverpool had waited sixteen years, and he had to report back to Katrina Harcus. If it had been fraud which had somehow caused the first crash, he was morally obliged more than any other man to prevent it from recurring. He could not go off to Liverpool chasing the demons of his memory and allow the whole nightmare to happen again because he was too preoccupied to attend to it.

He went back to Fitzroy Street to collect clean clothes and sufficient money, and to tell Hester where he was going and why. Then he took a hansom to Euston Station, and the next train to Derby.

The journey cost nineteen shillings and threepence and took nearly four hours, with a change at Rugby, which he was glad of. The second-class carriage was divided into three compartments, each less than five feet long and with twelve bare, narrow wooden seats in it. The compartments did not connect, and the partitions were covered with advertising posters. The whole was only five feet high, which meant that Monk had to duck to avoid hitting his head. First-class would have been higher, but also more expensive, and not necessarily any warmer or cleaner—although the louvered windows would have stopped vendors from sticking their heads in at the stations and breathing gin on the occupants!